Chapter 10 #3
Salima did not look pleased to have her ancestors called necromancers, but she continued.
“Dunya has been obsessed with our family’s lore since she was a child.
I encouraged her originally—at least, in the academic and historical matters.
Her talent with languages is astonishing and I believed further study would be beneficial.
She had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, and she was never happier than when she was poring through the old books in our library.
I indulged her, let her write to other scholars, enough that she garnered a reputation for her skills.
” Regret stole over her face. “And then she learned of the Moon of Saba and became obsessed. She says one of our texts mentions it being hidden and sealed away. The text was encoded, but Dunya worked for years to decipher its clues.”
I frowned, needing a moment to adjust to the realization that hope was apparently not lost. “Where is this text? It may tell
me where she and Falco went.”
Salima hesitated. “The text is gone. I can tell you some of what her notes said.”
“You mean give me more half-baked information? No. You are blackmailing me for my knowledge of the seas and its shores, which
is bad enough. At least let me do my fucking job and read her notes myself.”
“You cannot.”
I snarled in anger. “I can read perfectly well. In four different languages, if that—”
“I burned them.”
It felt as though I’d been punched. “You did what ?”
Salima glanced away, faltering. “I tried to tell Dunya that the Moon was an unhealthy fixation. That she needed to start living
in reality and preparing for her marriage. She could have her studies! But she needed to give up this interest in illicit
magic before she ruined her reputation. She would not listen. So I-I burned the text she was translating and the notes that
accompanied it.”
A wave of coldness swept through me. “You burned her work and still don’t think she ran away?”
Salima wrung her shayla between her hands. “I had no choice.”
I pulled at my chin, pacing in despair; the sliver of hope that had glimmered so sweetly yanked away. “God save me, woman.
What do you remember of her notes?”
“Dunya said the Moon of Saba had been hidden on an island, one believed to be often inaccessible. There were some sort of
marks—carvings perhaps—on the surrounding rocks. And a passage, one she liked to quote.”
“A passage?” I repeated, feeling like I had fallen into a nightmare.
“Yes. Dunya said that the Moon would ‘sleep until the Day of Judgment, guarded by white snakes and hidden behind a veil of
water that never saw the sky.’” A haunted expression stole over her face. “Dunya said it was very poetic in its original tongue
and she... she always loved her languages.”
A remote island of white snakes and hidden water? “Please tell me you remember more than that,” I begged. “That you have saved
some of her records or there are other books...”
Salima grimaced. “That is all I know. We have a library of texts and tablets, but you would need a specialist to decipher
the majority and it would take months, if not longer. And that is assuming they say anything about the Moon of Saba. If Dunya
is truly the first one to have figured this out, I do not imagine its location is information easily gleaned.”
I swore. “Then I need to see Dunya’s quarters. And this library where she was working.”
“Why?” Salima asked, suddenly suspicious. “Why her quarters?”
“Because some old woman has sworn to destroy my family if I do not find her granddaughter, and I have no other leads!” I did
not bother checking my anger. “You have to give me something to work with, Salima.”
“Fine,” she relented. “Usman will show you the way. I...” There might have been a hint of remorse in her expression, but
it was gone the next moment, and I frankly did not give a shit if she felt sad for threatening me. “It is difficult for me
to visit her rooms.”
“I am also going to need more than this,” I said, shaking the purse. “I have a ship to maintain and a crew to feed.”
“I will give you enough money to keep searching. Please find her, nakhudha. I understand I am putting you in a difficult position,
but Dunya is my world. Bring her home to me and all this business will be behind us. You will return to your own family a
wealthy woman.” Salima’s gaze met mine, more sincere this time. I had no doubt she meant those words.
I also had no doubt she would carry out her threat if I tried to disobey her again.
Hating myself for having to do so, I bowed my head. “Understood.”
***
The rude servant named Usman led me out of the kitchens, through twisting corridors and up two flights of stairs, all shrouded
in dust and loneliness. My attempts to make conversation went ignored. No doubt Salima had coached him well.
We stopped outside a heavy wooden door. Usman the Grim unlocked it and motioned me through, seeming prepared to wait in the
corridor.
“Are you not worried I will rob the place?” I asked mildly.
“Anything removed from there would be a blessing.” Usman scowled, as if he had forgotten speaking to me was below him, and
stepped back.
Compared to the rest of the house, the furnishings in Dunya’s room looked maintained. There were fresh roses in a vase beside
a large plush bed covered in embroidered pillows, and the windows that overlooked the courtyard had been thrown open to let
in light. The furniture was polished mahogany, the rugs of Persian design. Imported luxuries for a girl who had been encouraged
to dream, only to be returned abruptly to reality. A door on the other end of the bedchamber was half open, revealing bookshelves.
Had Dunya slept alongside a library? For a scholarly minded soul, that must have been a dream.
I decided to search the bedroom first, starting at one end and working my way outward, shaking out the folded blankets and running my hands around the grooves of the massive bed.
I examined drawers and chests, finding nothing but the occasional filigreed comb and mislaid bangles.
Dunya had enough clothes and shoes to outfit the wedding trousseaus of a dozen brides, so it was difficult to tell if she had taken anything with her.
Her sleeping quarters were otherwise bare of anything that seemed personal.
Whether that was because she had the forethought to bring such effects with her or had preferred to spend her time in the library, I did not know.
But there was one thing, the sight of which stole my breath.
On a sunlit window shelf sat an exact replica of Marjana’s jade turtle.
Like a woman possessed, I approached it, picking up the sun-warmed toy and feeling all the ghosts of my past swarm me. How
was this here ? But then I remembered: the turtle back home had not originally belonged to Marjana. I had bought it for Mustafa when he
was still a child. Asif had been with me then, hadn’t he? Had he watched me purchase the little turtle for my kid brother
and quietly done the same for the baby daughter he had abandoned? It was difficult to imagine Asif as a father; he had always
seemed so young to me.
“I wish you had stayed home,” I said softly. Here in this opulent house with a mother who had clearly loved him, it was impossible
not to judge Asif’s choices. Or my own. I wish I had kicked him off the Marawati instead of being won over by his earnestness.
I went to put the turtle down and then noticed that it hadn’t been sitting on the window shelf itself; it had been set upon
a slim pamphlet. I picked up the pamphlet and leafed through the pages, growing a bit confused if not slightly amused. They
were satirical poems—some quite bawdy—about the most legendary of the early Abbasid caliphs.
“I guess Salima isn’t the only one interfering in her descendants’ lives,” I mused, glancing over several ribald verses on a well-worn page relat ing how al-Amin’s mother ordered dancing girls and page boys to swap garments and effects in hopes of sparking the caliph’s desire. Apparently more than a few enjoyed it.
But neither the sentimental turtle nor historical gossip was going to help me find Dunya, so with a sigh, I headed for the
library.
In retrospect, I don’t know what I was expecting. A rich family with scholarly tastes would almost certainly boast a decent
collection of hadith literature and Quranic commentaries, biographies of the Prophet and his companions, peace be upon them,
and texts of Islamic jurisprudence. Because of Dunya’s interest in history and linguistics, there was probably also a prized
assortment of translations and ancient scholarly works from Indian, Persian, Chinese, and Greek sages. Maybe a half-dozen
or so books on alchemy, astrology, and esoterica—something by Abu Ma‘shar or Jabir ibn Hayyan, names even a commoner like
me knew.
Instead the moment I stepped inside, I understood Usman’s comment about removing items being a blessing.